The Fashionista Files Page 13
We couldn’t fit all the bags in the trunk, and Mel, who sat in back, was almost suffocated by our purchases. There was no talking on the way home. Silence. We were so depressed. It was a day of reckless, fun shopping, and we spent money we did not have. Ugh, fashion. Such a disease. Would Mel fess up to her husband about what she’d done? In the car, she talked about getting home quickly so she could hide the bags. She freaked out even more when she checked her messages—and there was one from the bank, making sure someone didn’t swipe her credit card (you know you’re in trouble when . . .).
You know you’ve overshopped when you can’t even close the trunk!
Did we really need this stuff, we wondered. Why couldn’t we just be happy with Banana Republic and J.Crew? Actually, we are, but we get that extra thrill from high design, making runway clothes a reality. Anxiety and all. By the time we got home—and unwrapped our loot—the guilt subsided. The stuff wasn’t returnable anyway. So we might as well enjoy it. And we made a plan to return the following week!
OUTLET PREPARATION
Things to Keep in Mind for a Day in Manic Paradise
Get a map, so you’re aware of all the goods and the key areas you’d like to visit. Otherwise you’ll spend half the day walking aimlessly, wasting your precious energy.
Be patient. Sometimes you’ll hit an outlet and find your dreams. Sometimes you’ll find nada.
Don’t bring credit cards, only enough cash to pay for what you can really afford.
Keep a Balance bar in your bag. If you forget to eat—or can’t find sustenance in the food court—you’ll need something to keep your blood sugar from crashing.
Do a sweep of the entire mall first. Get an idea of what’s available. Put things on hold if possible. And then take time to think about your decision in order to make a smart one.
If you’re the type who has trouble saying “when,” take your most antishopping friend (or boyfriend), who will put a time limit on your day.
Examine things carefully. Sometimes outlet pieces have been tried on so many times that the fabric is pulled, ripped, or discolored. Also, there are sometimes stained designer rejects.
Bring a car with a large trunk!
YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHERE WE GOT THIS!
The Wonderful World of Target and Paying Less MELISSA AND KAREN
There are a few things we appreciate more than anything else in life: family, genuine friendships, and the thrill of a cheap purchase that everyone admires and asks us about. And there’s nothing we like more than stretching our dollar at one of the most fabulous places in town. We’re talking, of course, about Target. (Or Tar-zjay, in the French pronunciation.)
Target is so much cooler than Kmart or Wal-Mart. For one, the store actually hires real designers, like Todd Oldham and Stephen Sprouse (who, unfortunately, is no longer with us, making his graffiti bikinis we own collector’s items), to create their wares. We are in love with all the Michael Graves kitchen gadgets, and can’t think of a better place to buy a plastic doggie bowl ($10 from design guru Karim Rashid!). We start by pawing through the latest stuff from Isaac Mizrahi. The ebullient designer has a collection of American classics at the store: $29 clogs, $50 cotton trench coats, and $20 cashmere-cotton sweaters. It’s fantastic, but we’re more excited by the Juicy knockoffs.
“I love these sweatpants!” Karen exclaims, pouncing on several pairs. At $18 each, she could buy ten for the price of one designer sweatsuit. A Mossimo rack holds a white oxford shirt sewn into a V-neck sweater. We had lusted over a similar one from AF Vandervorst at Kirna Zabete for $495. At $19, what could we lose? We take three. Target is a great place to find basics, and we stock up on tank tops with the bra already sewn inside, as well as a bunch of vintage-ish T-shirts with funny seventies ski logos. (They’re only $8 each. We buy ten!) Our shopping cart loaded with all our treasures, we head back to the city, where Mel takes Karen to the local Payless. Yes, Payless.
Parting is such sweet sorrow.
“This is, like, my favorite store from high school,” Mel explains, pulling out purple booties with the “fold,” which are so retro eighties and just the thing for right now. We find Mary Janes that look just like Prada for $7, and gem-encrusted strappy sandals that could have walked off the Manolo boutique (almost). Sheepskin-lined boots are $13 and kick-ass combat boots are a mere $17. While we still love our high-priced heels, there’s certainly nothing wrong with making room for a little pleather in our lives.
BARGAIN HUNTING 101!
The best advice we’ve ever received was from our moms: Don’t wear expensive designers from head to toe. In fact, when you mix the high with the low, no one will be able to tell what’s what. Here’s everything you ever wanted to know about affordable destinations and (shhh!) knockoffs.
Basic white T-shirts and wife-beaters? Try Hanes, the boys’ underwear section of department stores, and prepackaged sets of three that are sold at Wal-Mart and Kmart. Just note: Avoid the Kathy Ireland section of Kmart at all costs.
Target. We’ve seen some darn good Manolo Blahnik knockoffs here (remember the Timberland stiletto boots J.Lo wore in one of her videos?), not to mention great T-shirts, workout clothes, teeny tanks, cotton thongs, socks, and inexpensive collections from noteworthy designers like Liz Lange (maternity) and Isaac Mizrahi.
Club Monaco. The perfect place to pick up Marc Jacobs and Prada imitations that your friends will swear are the real thing if you mix them with one designer piece.
Old Navy. Choose wisely and you’ll find a $10 facsimile of whatever is the “it” bag, top, and silhouette of the season. Just tell everyone it’s Miu Miu. We swear, they won’t doubt you.
H&M. In fashion circles, it’s become known as the hip European retailer of “disposable” chic. Big in Sweden, H&M is the ultimate purveyor of cheap, trendy looks that will update your wardrobe instantly without bankrupting your wallet. But a caveat: It’s not made very well.
Victoria’s Secret. Consider it the home of the sexy, feminine lace-trimmed camisole, the perfect thing to pair with leather pants, straight jeans, and velvet evening trousers.
Any army-navy store. Go for old-school peacoats, army fatigue jackets, and little sweatshirts that say “Army” or “Navy” and wear them with something more refined and pricey. Very Kate Moss.
Vintage fur retailers. Fur, when vintage, is not as “rich bitch” or guilt-inducing as new pelts. Consider raiding your mom’s or grandma’s closet and bringing an old coat to a furrier for a modern makeover.
Flea markets. Whether you’re in Paris, Notting Hill, or a local street fair, you can always find chandelier earrings, luxurious fabrics for sarongs or scarves, a leather jacket, or something to enhance your wardrobe without dipping into your savings account.
Top Shop, the Target of London, where top designers like Matthew Williamson and Clements Ribeiro have cheapie, but supercute collections. 214 Oxford Street (44 207) 636-7700.
COPY CATS: SOME THINGS ARE MEANT TO BE KNOCKED OFF
Mom Won’t Lend Me Her Birkin KAREN
If there’s one mark of a fashionista, it’s her handbag, a veritable symbol of who she is and the image she wants to project. The mother of all handbags: the Hermès Birkin, a $4,000 (and up) emblem of sophisticated, classic luxury. The Bentley of accessories. Named after sixties British starlet Jane Birkin, the leather satchel has a four-year waiting list, and comes in a rainbow of colors, hides, and skins (can you say $30,000 for croc?) and either gold or silver hardware (diamonds for $80,000). Whether you’re wearing Gap or Gucci, a Birkin is the kind of statement piece that complements, enhances, and completes your style. Unlike all other bags, it will truly last a lifetime. My mother has been nagging my dad for one forever. So much so that even my younger brother, Jason, has said, “Dad, just get it for her already,” and actually searched for one on eBay. My dad has always been reticent, unable to understand how his wife could spend that kind of money on something that he deems so frivolous.
One fateful afternoon, Jason and
I were meeting my parents for lunch at Taboo on Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, Florida—a few steps away from the Hermès store, where my mother often drools on the wait list. My parents were late. And J. and I were starving and annoyed—they knew how hungry we were . . . how could they keep us waiting for so long! “I bet Mom walks in with an Hermès,” Jason said.
“No way. Dad is so not going there,” I snapped.
“He’s caving. Trust me,” Jason said assuredly.
Minutes later, my mom walked in with a black leather Birkin on her arm and a beaming smile longer than the train of a Vera Wang wedding gown. She held it up as if it were a new baby. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” my mom purred. My dad shrugged his shoulders and sighed. “I’m a sucker.” Apparently the bag had come in just as my parents entered the store, and when the salesgirl called the people on the wait list, they weren’t home . . . and she broke all the rules and sold it to my mom on the spot. I don’t want to know what my mom promised my dad in return for the gift. But I do know that Birkin is now a family member. My mom loves it so much, I’m surprised she hasn’t marked off its height on the wall the way you do with children as they get older. We joke that Birkin is lonely and in need of siblings—a sister named Kelly (Kelly being the Hermès bag named after Grace Kelly) and a girlfriend named Constance (yet another Hermès style).
Birkin almost never leaves my mother’s side. It’s like she’s nursing. I have asked repeatedly if I can borrow the bag. To that she says no. “I don’t understand,” I have begged time and time again. “It’s just a bag. I won’t do anything to hurt it.” And she responds, “You don’t need to walk around with a notable $4,000 bag at this age. It’s inappropriate, even pretentious.” I have explained that many, many girls my age (and younger) have Birkin sidekicks, but that argument has gotten me nowhere. And she said, “You can have one when you can afford one. I want you to have something to look forward to.” I took the approach of “carrying it for even a day will certainly give me something to look forward to.” But she just won’t part with it. No matter what.
Her attachment to the bag, while I understand it in a way, is a bit much. If, God forbid, something happened to it, I swear she’d have a funeral and sit shivah (Jewish for mourning) like a full-on Orthodox (covering mirrors, wearing black, the whole megillah). Soon after Birkin was adopted, my parents traveled to Florence, Italy, where they met a fellow Birkin owner from New Jersey who informed my mom about a man I’ll call Paolo (for legal reasons, I cannot divulge his real name), who runs a normal, innocent-looking newsstand near the Pontevecchio, often called the “Jewelry Bridge,” and peddles all kinds of faux designer bags that look exactly like the real thing (for $100 to $300) on the side.
It’s a process to make the connection and secure the loot. Upon arriving, my mom was instructed to say “Adrienne sent me.” The man at the newsstand told her to return later. Paolo wasn’t there. She did. Three times. Finally Paolo emerged and told her to return at four P.M. sharp. They were to meet at a corner, at which time he would lead them to his storage warehouse. “Trail me at thirty paces and don’t look like you’re following me,” demanded Paolo, burly, swarthy, and unshaven, as if he were explaining a CIA op. At four o’clock, my parents arrived with two other New York couples, who had heard of Paolo. They stealthily walked around the corner, as Paolo cautiously looked over his shoulder, ensuring that no one pulled any funny stuff or called the cops.
Paolo opened a door to some kind of trucking garage space, made sure the coast was clear, and waved everyone in. He closed the door. The room was pitch-black. Mom prayed she wouldn’t be mugged, and suddenly the lights went on. Floor-to-ceiling shelves revealed thousands of faux bags—Diors, Guccis, Fendis—on every wall. The women gasped over the sight, as if it were the crown jewels.
They sat on plastic bags filled with more fake bags and inspected the merchandise. My mother refused to believe that a respectable faux (isn’t that an oxymoron?) existed. She brought the real Birkin to compare the feel of the leather, the weight of the lock and key that hangs off the top, the interior. It was perfect, even stamped and engraved with the Hermès insignia in all the right places (above the strap and clasp, on the hardware of the clasp, at the bottom of the lock, and on the inside of the strap). These fakes even had a stamp with the year it was made and a code, real or fake, to signify which craftsman made it. My dad was sure Paolo had a friend on the inside. It was a little too perfect.
She bought the bag on the spot! Upon her return, she delightfully showed it to her most meticulous friend—a woman who has no less than six Hermès bags. She could not tell it was fake. Not even for a second. She even brought it into the Hermès shop, just to see if they’d notice (they didn’t!). I examined it, too, and was unable to decipher the difference between the real and the fake. I figured my mom would surely lend me the fake one. But no! She didn’t want her daughter projecting the image of “I have a $4,000 handbag,” even if it was only $300. She compared it to kids who get BMWs for their first cars and thus have no respect for the dollar, or wind up living a life where they have a grotesque sense of material entitlement. Um, I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman! But she promised she’d leave me her Birkin (and two Kellys) in her will (they are heirlooms, after all). I hope I don’t inherit them for a long, long, long time. In the meantime, if you know anyone going to Florence, do let me know!
By Any Other Name
MELISSA
My family immigrated to San Francisco in 1985, the year I turned thirteen. My parents became proprietors of the employees’ cafeteria in the back room of the Sears department store. We went from having servants to working in the service industry. Worse yet, my mother, who was never without her three-inch mules in Manila, now ran around in sneakers. I had never seen her in sneakers before. It disturbed me immensely.
For my thirteenth birthday, my mom had always planned on taking me on a mother-daughter shopping trip to Hong Kong, like the kind she and my grandmother and her three sisters used to take every month. Of course, Hong Kong was out of the question now. We could afford only Kmart. The first designer label I owned was from the Jaclyn Smith Collection. I still remember the outfit: pink velour sweater, pink flannel calf-length skirt.
A few years later, when I was off to college in New York City, I asked my mother to sew labels from my dad’s old Ralph Lauren button-downs on my Mervyn’s-bought clothes to “make them designer.” In college, a friend rummaged through my closet and remarked on my homemade Lauren. “That’s funny. It kind of looks like someone sewed the label on this to pretend it was Ralph Lauren,” she said.
I turned beet red. I became an expert at thrift-store shopping after that.
HOW TO SMELL A BAD KNOCKOFF A MILE AWAY
Misspellings. There’s no such thing as a Kate Spude bag, but come on, we didn’t need to tell you that.
Discolorations of any kind. Be aware of the exact hues of the authentic version, whether you study it in person or in a magazine, so you can compare and contrast.
Examine the zippers. A real bag will have a sturdy zipper of a certain kind, so before making an investment in what might be a fake, check out the real thing and take note of the color of the zipper, the thickness, the weight, and any engravings on the metal. If the Louis Vuitton zipper is gold, don’t buy a bag that has one in silver.
Glue remnants. Fakes often have labels that are glued, not sewn, on.
Crooked stitching.
You found it in Chinatown.
The feel of the fabric. Fakes are notoriously stiff and rigid.
Look at the lining. The color and textile of the inside of a handbag—if it’s bad—is a dead giveaway.
Open the bag and search for a stamp or label inside. Make sure it doesn’t peel off and that it’s centered.
SPLURGE! OUR BIGGEST-TICKET ITEMS, GOD BLESS THEM!
The Girl’s Gotta Have It! KAREN
Here is the thing about splurging. It’s like having the most decadent, delicious, sumptuous, silken cupcake that tickles
your taste buds into sugar-induced ecstasy. If you’ve never had one, you’re fine. You don’t need one. You don’t know what you’re missing. The second you do, you’re hooked, transformed, full of urging—and you wind up craving more and more and more, thinking, It was so good the first time, it doesn’t matter if I do it again . . . and again . . . and again. Over time you’re getting two, three, four, five at a time . . . and possibly gaining fifteen pounds. Shopping big is no different. Once you buck up to higher and higher price levels for fashion, it has a tendency to become a habit as de rigueur as getting the morning paper.
My splurging infatuation began innocently, as all bad habits do. ’Twas the summer of 1998. My aforementioned friend Sally was getting married. And as a part of the wedding party, I was allowed to wear whatever I wanted, as long as it was a soft candy shade of pastel pink. The ceremony was an urban-hip affair at an all-white loft in Chelsea. I searched high and low for something that was sexy and cool and that I could wear again. Trips to Barneys, the boho hippie store Calypso, a little fashionista boutique called Jane Mayle on Elizabeth Street, and Bergdorf Goodman got me nowhere. I came close at Cynthia Rowley with a strapless, tight, short satin dress, but not close enough (it didn’t do great things to my armpit area). I found an amazing hot-pink skirt and camisole, but Sally put the kibosh on it. Too bright, she said. Saks and Bloomingdale’s had nothing. And this was before my days of thinking it was acceptable to pop into Gucci, Dior, YSL, or some kind of major designer store where things start at $1,000 (however, it was this very search that wound up leading me to such future behavior).
I was frustrated. And my $500 budget kept getting higher and higher. I went to Los Angeles to visit a guy I was dating at the time and I figured I’d surely find something there. That city is all about color. But the groovy stores like Curve and all the shops on Robert-son were barren in the pink department. Finally I went to Fred Segal Santa Monica. I fell for a slip dress by Patty Shelabarger, but it was too small. Out of curiosity I stepped into the “couture” department. And there it was. The first thing I saw—a lovely baby pink V-neck, superfitted Blumarine short-sleeved sweater with a rabbit-fur (detachable) collar and pink pearlized flower-shaped buttons down the front. Stunning. I tried it on with a pink Pucci shantung silk skirt of the exact same shade. And the guy I was with popped out of his seat and yelped, “This is the one. I’m in love with you.”